No Sweat
by scorpiaux
Summary: Kataang, OneShot. “Sorry,” she whispered embarrassedly, looking down at their perfectly intertwined fingers. “My hand’s just kind of…sweaty.” Being raised in the South Pole doesn’t work out so well when you’re introduced to the other climates of the world


**No Sweat**

**Summary**: Kataang, OneShot. "Sorry," she whispered embarrassedly, looking down at their perfectly intertwined fingers. "My hand's just kind of…sweaty." Being raised in the South Pole doesn't work out so well when you're introduced to the other climates of the world.

**Author's Note**: I was going for a more comical note to this one. Should be cute but also kind of amusing. Recently my server has been down and I haven't been receiving any emails from this site about reviews, alerts—that sort of thing. Hopefully this should change soon! I need to see my emails! So dependent!

(This means you should still _review!!_)

I've read somewhere that most people from the east suffer from problems similar to really sweaty palms because of the change in hereditary climate, myself included. For example, if your whole family is from…some place in Asia or Southern Europe, and then you come to the US and stay here for a while and develop sweating, it's looked upon as expected and somewhat normal. So I figured, "Hey, Katara isn't an exception! She's eastern, isn't she?" And of course, she is—right? In a sense.

Hope this makes all of you smile--I feel it really has to. At least once!

_-scorpiored112_

* * *

With snow—and, she assumed, with lots of other things—it helped to have a good grip. Having your fingers clasped firmly around something was a sign of assurance and certitude. If you could grip, then you could hang on, and do all sorts of other gripping-related activities. This was why Sokka taught his younger sister, at the ripe age of seven, how to make home-made grip solvent.

"You just _spit_," the nine-year-old explained shortly, demonstrating with his own dry palms. He took off his gloves and sent a wet one right down to his left hand. "See, Katara? Just like that."

It looked gross and she didn't understand why he needed to do it. But without his gloves, and with this amazingly remarkable self-made solvent, Sokka could throw his spear further, aim better, and make a more rounded, perfect snowball.

And so, by perfecting this spit and rub method, Katara learned the fine art of being a repulsive child. A tomboy, if you will. Her snowballs increased in size by a good 75 percentile rate, forcing Sokka to regret his teachings. His sister now posed a threat.

This is important to remember because in her fourteen years of life, Katara had never had a problem with being nervous. She was a confident, somewhat obnoxious girl. Boys liked her, and often stared and gawked, but she was too much of a clueless, childish thing to really realize it. And when she _did_, she waved and smirked at them, because that was the clueless thing to do. That was what confident people did, after all—make the rest of the world uncomfortable. And it would be a lie to say she didn't like the feeling. She loved it.

It was a different story with Aang.

Perhaps it was the way he _was_—his character, that sort of thing—or maybe the simple fact that she had known since she had met him that there was something special between them. The feeling that did creep into her chest couldn't really be described as nervousness—it was more of a sick feeling. Like throwing up, only not in your hand, because that's just about as repulsive as spitting into it. More like…

_Butterflies,_ Katara often thought. _Like eating a whole mass of demonic butterflies._

It was the one lovey-dovey feeling that she didn't like. It wasn't confidence. In love there is no such thing as "I am more confident than you" or "I have more butterflies in my stomach." Love is a game of chance and dice. Sometimes you are confident and sometimes you are not, because your lover sometimes knows you better than you know your self—which isn't always pleasing, but the truth.

So it came as a surprise when her hands produced their own spit—well—sweat, I guess, would be a more proper term for the matter. It happened lots of times and at first she didn't notice, because she and Aang were still friends and she was a waterbender and perhaps she thought it was part of puberty.

Which it wasn't, but it helped to have a blame place.

It became the most noticeable in an instance that Katara remembers as both embarrassing and pleasant, if such a thing is possible.

Aang, at the present, fifteen years, had decided to take her to an Earth Kingdom parade. The main attractions were huge sculptures carried down in a sort of parade-like parading by the benders who crafted them. And the Avatar, being the romantic devil that he is, had decided to bring Katara here for one reason and one reason only:

"You'll have to hold my hand, Katara—otherwise you'll get lost. There are too many people."

He was right. Overpopulation in the Earth Kingdom was a problem, but the parade made it much worse. _A 75 percentile rate increase_, Katara thought amusedly, trying to breathe through the mass of people. _I can hardly move. _

It wasn't an understatement.

There were people everywhere. Shouting, yelling, cheering, moving. Sweating and breathing and living as if the world was to end tomorrow. It was both passionate and terrifying and left Katara in a confused state. The Southern Water Tribe very seldom did…_parades_. Or whatever this display of madness was considered.

Aang recognized her discomfort and pulled them away for a little while. The chaos subsided as they found a small, earthy bench, crafted in the perimeter of a cobblestone circle. It was dusk and the air still smelled like fried meat and dough, like sweat and obvious Earth Kingdom scent.

"Kind of loud," Katara began, rubbing her ears with her free limb. "Very impressive sculptures—but very loud."

"I couldn't breathe," her companion admitted, watching as she leaned into him. "Some procession though."

"I guess."

Aang sighed in a reflective manner. "I can see you don't like the parade scene much." He held her hand up and kissed it. "But it's okay. There are lots of other things to do."

Katara grinned quietly at him. "You're right," she murmured, tightening her grip. "I guess I'm just not familiar with the crowding. Hold on a second, Aang, will you?"

She pulled her hand out of his grasp and took off the outer layer of her top tunic, revealing a thin-fit shirt underneath. His stare amused and delighted her, as all the other boyish stares did. She waved in front of his eyes and smirked at him—the typical Katara reaction, which I have outlined for you before, and which Aang recognized immediately as something she often did.

"It's hot," she explained, throwing her tunic over the bench. "It's really warm—honestly it is, even though the sun's down." She fanned her hands in front of her face in a distressed manner.

"It's a little warm," Aang answered, directing his stare to her full, palpable chest. "I wouldn't go as far as hot, but it _is_ warm."

She glanced briefly at him. "No more parades, please."

"Of course not, Katara. It's all up to you."

"Wonderful."

"And there are lots of other things to do, like I said."

"I believe you," she said with a smile, reaching for his hand again. "What should we do?"

Now honestly—there is no reason to ask this. Aang is fifteen and a male human being. Katara, a helplessly attractive—but rather clueless—girl, in her undershirt, is sitting in front of him on a bench. It's getting a little dark outside and everyone is at the parade. She has just suggested to him what he wants to do, and of course he answered,

"Study some trigonometric functions and catch up on our studies of the humanities. Education is essential, and honestly, Katara, we spend so much time worrying about bending and saving the world, we have neglected our real self-worth: Knowledge is power, my dear! Put your shirt back on and take out your calculator."

(This is not what he really answered)

He (really) answered by pulling her hands closer and kissing her lips softly, with a somewhat challenging air, because that is the best way to kiss someone. As a challenge. It's like running up to someone and tagging them and then saying "You can't catch me," even though it is quite clear that they could, indeed, catch you. But it is the challenge, you see. You _want_ them to catch you.

Katara, actually, didn't mind the kissing.

She especially liked it now because she liked the seclusion of the plaza they had wondered into. The bench was comfortable and Aang smelled like cologne. And kissing was nice. It reminded her every so often that it would—and could—and probably should one day—lead to bigger things. Levels of attraction that she was not yet accompanied with, but anticipated, and was also a little unsure and afraid of.

Katara's lips parted because she enjoyed the impact. Pressing someone's lips against yours is okay—but it's hardly enough. When you've made-out once—and enjoyed it—it's hard not to do it again. The involvement of tongue becomes absolutely necessary. No questions asked.

(Hold. It seems we have a question. Anonymous reader 48302 asks, "dis story is getting 2 descriptive. They aren't going 2 have _sex_, are they? Wow! plz say they do! That wud be really kewl. It would pwn all and it wud be soooooooo awesome. I heart make out scenes so be sure 2 describe it in intense detail, plz, oh and btw your writing style with parentheses is getting wiggity-wiggity-whack. Why are you interacting wit us and wutz that all abizout?)

(I feel compelled to answer Anonymous reader 48302's question, but we should really finish the story. Besides, half of this reader's questions were not in standard English, which breaks my fragile heart!)

(We shall now continue.)

Her companion's slippery muscle entered her mouth and she leaned into him further, clasping her hands to the back of his neck. She felt his arms snake about her waist—the soft fabric of Aang's orange clothing pressing against her undershirt, on her back, pulling her closer. It was so pleasant and wonderful and intense and…

_Hot, _Katara thought, _Is it scorching out here, or is it just me?_

It was the butterfly demons, taking root in her stomach, tearing apart her flesh from the inside lining of her gastrointestinal cavity.

(Anonymous reader 291 asks, in response to the reference of someone's stomach, "Wut is gasrintelz?")

She hated it because the home-made solvent Sokka had so graciously displayed seeped out of her pores so suddenly. It was such bad timing. He was pushing her back and she had proceeded to finding the opening of his shirt, to feel his chest, and his rapid heartbeat, which she always enjoying listening to. It was ridiculous and a little awkward to do, but she felt that she had to break away from him for a moment, just collectively.

"Aang—Aang wait," she breathed, pulling her fingers away from him and trying to push him off. "It's just—sorry, but…"

He raised a brow. "It's not my breath, is it?" he joked, elbowing her side gently and taking her hand again. "What's up?"

"Sorry," she whispered embarrassedly, looking down at their perfectly intertwined fingers. "My hand's just kind of…sweaty."

"So?"

She looked up at him and realized that he had not let go. It was worse because the butterflies became big, confused birds that squawked and screeched and hit the lining of her stomach. She felt like vomiting. Not into her hand, as that is repulsive.

"So it's…nasty and—well, weird," she answered, turning her gaze. She tried to pull out of his grasp, but Aang held on regardless.

"I don't mind, you know," the airbender laughed, amused at her blushing. He looked at her and winked. "Actually, I kind of like it."

"Ew!" she exclaimed, suppressing a giggle. "Aang!"

"What?"

"That's weird! Why would you _like_ it?"

"I just do," he shrugged. "I find it attractive."

She looked away, mistaking his explanation for a mocking gesture.

"No, seriously." When she turned he kissed her softly again, the competitive thing to do. She let the giggle out against his lips. The squawking birds in her stomach died of raging bullets and bird influenza instantly. "It's fine, Katara," he continued, moving a strand of hair out of her face. "No sweat."

In any case, with snow—and, she assumed, with lots of other things—it helped to have a good grip. Having your fingers clasped firmly around something is a sign of assurance and certitude. If you can grip, then you can hang on, and do all sorts of other gripping-related activities. This was why she grabbed his collar and kissed him as deeply as she could.

Contrary to Sokka's belief, their binding was much stronger than that of any home-made solvent. Although later the sweating would help Katara (grasp) on to (things) and maybe even help Aang feel more rounded (snowballs) and aid him in (shooting) and (aiming) his (spear) better and (further). _Literally_, as I am not a pervert. She bought him a spear at the parade—the parentheses just look nice.

...But it helps to have perspective. So metaphor is always nice too.


End file.
